First it was Japan, then it was three weeks travelling around Mexico, trekking through jungles to Mayan ruins and lounging on deserted beaches until our skin felt crispy from the sun and sea. The plan was that we’d save up after our 2020 summer wedding and then use the Christmas break for an adventure-packed honeymoon to a country neither myself nor my husband-to-be had ever been before. We’d envisaged several weeks spent on the move, exploring new places, punctuated by stays in budget-blowing hotels, where we’d sleep until we woke naturally and soak in the bath for hours, indulgently plotting the next chapter of our lives together.
But the three-week adventure getaway never happened, and for that matter neither did our wedding, or at least not quite as we’d planned it. If there’s one thing the pandemic taught me, it was to manage expectations, particularly when it came to organising nuptials. In the end, we postponed our big day not once but twice and, after our 2019 engagement, we finally tied the knot in front of a hundred friends and family in a 14th century monastery in rural Suffolk last year. Among the guests, and a surprise addition to the seating plan, was our 18-month-old son, who was born during the second lockdown. The wedding was as much a meet-and-greet for him as it was a celebration of our love, which had now multiplied in unimaginable ways.
Despite desperately wanting to be the type of parents who would honeymoon in the Himalayas with their child strapped to their backs, high on life and adrenalin, the past year and half had quite frankly been enough of an adventure; we were tired and, as it turned out, those kinds of parents. So, when it came to planning our honeymoon in between writing our vows and choosing an outfit for the newly-appointed, barely-walking ring bearer, our expectations shrunk once more. It needed to be a European break (the shorter the flight, the better) and we would go for five days max: the mere thought of packing for any longer while making finishing touches to the wedding day threatened to bring out the bridezilla in me.
We briefly considered signing up to our first ever all-inclusive, child-friendly (hello, kids club) resort. But as one colleague, and well-travelled parent, put it: ‘It’s fun going on holiday with your own kids, but you don’t want to go on holiday with everyone else’s kids.’ My husband and I have always loved going to Mediterranean islands and so we quite quickly settled on a villa holiday (friends insisting that villas and children were a brilliant match) in the Balearic Island of Mallorca. I’d been once before on a cycling trip with a group of women I’d never met and had loved exploring the island’s inroads on two wheels. My husband, more of a beer than a bike man, had never been but was excited by the Mallorquin culinary scene of fresh seafood, almond-rich pastries and cava.
One of the things that made us fall instantly in love with Mallorca is that it’s a place of perspectives: it boasts both the majestic Tramuntana mountains, which act like the island’s backbone, as well as an incredible coastline, dotted with secluded coves and calm, clear water. We were heading to Playa de Muro on the northeast coast, a 45-minute drive from the capital Parma and one of Mallorca’s best beaches, known for its shallow water, golden sands and easy-to-reach bars. Once we’d had the predictable argument about installing the child seat in the hire car, we found ourselves cutting right across the island, lapping up first impressions: views of ancient olive groves and windmills, and the welcoming chimes of grazing sheep’s bells.
Our home for the week was Muro Beach House, near the towns of Pollensa and Alcudia. One of a few private properties that sit right on the coast, the house’s back garden was a private beach with soft white sand and super-sized day bed surrounded by white linen curtains which we quickly identified as the family base. As soon as we walked into the marbled, James Bond-worthy living space and looked out at the view, our son squealed ‘sea’, which he continued to say every time he saw the incredible aquamarine waters just beyond our very own strip of sand. His constant marvelling – at the sea, at the sand, at the huge walk-in shower room - was infectious, and made us see things through his eyes with a heightened appreciation for everything. We might not have been able to lie in or lounge in the midday sun, but we quickly began to realise that honeymooning with a one-year-old was slowing things down in a very good way.
As we settled into life at Muro Beach House, waking up (at 6am) to the sun rising across the bay, we thanked our friends who had advised on a villa holiday. They were right – we instantly felt like locals and slipped into a gentle routine of deserted dawn swims, making, and then quickly dismantling, sandcastles and heading out for morning trips to explore the nearby towns before the May sun got too hot.
Market days are a big thing in Alcudia old town and, because we were up early, we could get there before the crowds, taking our time to snake around the vibrant fruit and food stalls before settling down at one of the coveted tables outside Café Elinor in the town’s centre. A favourite with locals, this small, traditional café serves freshly baked Mallorquin pastries, including deliciously soft and airy ensaimadas, which are coil-shaped and made with pork lard. Sitting with a pastry and a strong coffee, watching the world go by while our son flirted with cooing marketgoers (much to our delight, the Spanish seemed to welcome toddler chaos wherever we went), I felt lighter than I had in months and thrilled to be surrounded by my little family.
Although we were happy to embrace the chaos and be led by our son’s routine, we also planned to have a few hours to ourselves that weren’t just nap times. Simpson Travel who look after Muro Beach House recommended we try the trusted babysitting service Jelly and Ice Cream, which operates in various holidays destinations, including the Balearic Islands and several ski resorts in the French Alps.
Any feelings of guilt we felt leaving our son with Meg (a wonderful Welsh woman who arrived with a bagful of craft making materials) for a few hours one morning instantly dissipated as we sped away in the car and headed inland towards Sineu, a hilltop town located in the very centre of the island, which was once its capital. Its lively and sprawling market has been going for 700 years and uniquely includes livestock and farm animals from doves to piglets. We skipped the guinea fowl stall but did barter for some brightly coloured, wicker baskets. Childfree, we were able to slowly wind our way through the maze of stalls, not stopping for snack time but nibbling on huge, bright red cherries and delicious gato de Almendras that left us with sugary moustaches as we explored.
Before getting back to the beach house and a gallery’s worth of toddler artwork, we stopped at L’Epicerie, a nearby delicatessen in Alcudia stocking everything from mouth-watering jamon to local cheeses and wines. It’s the kind of place where you go in for olives and come out with over €100 worth of delicacies that will last a lunchtime but make you swear never to buy wafer thin ham from Sainsbury’s again. We ate lunch together outside in the shade, enjoying the laziness and sipping on refreshing Radler beers.
The last time I’d been to Mallorca, and after days of non-stop cycling, I’d had a massage from an incredible therapist called Amanda Woolston who had the kind of touch that makes you suspect they might possess a sixth sense. She’d left a big impression on me and so I was thrilled when I tracked her down through her company Reflexology Mallorca and she was happy to come to the beach house to give us both a therapeutic massage. As our son napped, Amanda set herself up near a wide-open balcony door overlooking the sea (having been to various private villas on the island she said she’d never been to one with such an amazing view) and we both melted away under her magical touch.
From then on we seemed to float through the rest of our familymoon, not aiming to do too much in a day but delighting in late afternoon strolls through the nearby S’Albufera Natural Park and trips to the picturesque towns of Pollensa and Santa Margalida where we sat in sleepy squares drinking freshly-squeezed orange juice, watching our son’s eyes light up as he inhaled his first ice cream or munched on previously forbidden crisps, as we enjoyed a moment’s quiet and an early evening caña of beer.
On our penultimate evening, Meg from Jelly and Ice Cream came back to babysit and we treated ourselves to a date night. Before our dinner reservation at neighbourhood restaurant Figueret, we snuck to the beach with a chilled bottle of cava and leftover olives from our deli run to watch the sky change colour over the darkening sea. Twilight has always been our favourite holiday hour and it felt special to be able to wholly enjoy the moment, our makeshift aperitif reminding us of our early days of dating. When we finally made it to the restaurant, we ordered a huge seafood paella which came served in a traditional cast iron paellera that was so big it needed its own table and server.
A couple of months after we’d returned from our trip to Mallorca, everyone’s favourite boomerang couple J-Lo and Ben Affleck were pictured with their four children on a familymoon in Paris. It looked like they were having a great time, embracing the modern family way to honeymoon, where everyone’s invited.
Back in London we drifted through the entire summer in a post-wedding bubble, realising that managing holiday expectations is no bad thing: we saw and did things we wouldn’t have seen or perhaps taken the time to appreciate had it just been my husband and I, and we still came back relaxed to our core. One day we might make it to Mexico or Japan, maybe for our ‘retirementmoon’. I’d say no kids allowed, but I’m not sure I really mean it.
This article originally appeared in the February 2023 issue of ELLE UK.
